by Char-la-la on flickr
My Lover is a Pianist
Your bony fingers are softly pressing against the dusty keys of the piano you found in your attic. It was that old mahogany constellation of black and white keys and golden cords and it was beautiful, you thought.
You massage the big knuckles that bump your moth-eaten pale fingers, sighing soft stars against the bare wood. The luster faded long ago, and the fibers were naked against the palm of your hand.
You played it once, with all your heart, but when you found your heart to be missing again, you never went up that attic again. You left the house. You left your piano cold and lonely once more.
Your palm and fingers are comfortingly cool most of the time, and when you take my hands in yours, I can almost feel the fibers of the wood, ingrained in your skin.
the music still flows thru the shallow grooves on your palms.
You know, I thought I got the system of tumblarity pretty mcuh figured for a while. But now…it’s confusing me again.
#212 Remember that most fairytales were written by men.
Some of the greatest writers of children’s fables were male: The Brother’s Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, even Walt Disney. You are not a tiny princess awaiting rescue by a valiant man, a symbol of frailty and naïveté, or the punch line in a morality tale. The women in those stories were crafted by a different sex at a different time for a different audience; these days you slay the dragon yourself.
Marauder’s Map.
Okay, I want this so frikkin much. But it would be a map of my high school, and my high school would turn out to have many secret corridors and an agitated hystory!
*shot*
need to get my head out of the clouds, amirite?
It is most clear that school is hindering my creativity. I need summer, I need to get bothered and have a lot of free time so I can start pumping out them creative juices.
About Me
Oneironaut Mariacristina dreams.Music addict. Sugar-drugged, art-breathing random girl.
